


Crying Talking Sleeping Walking

by FrancesHouseman



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Accidental Bonding, Cursed Dean, M/M, Sibling Incest, Voodoo dolls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2018-05-20 20:18:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6023335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrancesHouseman/pseuds/FrancesHouseman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The witch dies laughing at Dean. It's never a good sign.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crying Talking Sleeping Walking

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Linden](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linden/gifts).



> If I'd finished this yesterday it would have been a Valentine's Day gift, but hey! I love you every day of the year, so happy International Fanworks Day instead :D

 

The Winchesters stalk the witch they've been hunting for almost a month. Dean can already taste victory, so close this time. They're quiet, not ninja quiet, but she's chanting in Latin and concentrating, drawing off a syringe of potion, so she doesn't hear them coming.

 

Two dolls lie on her alter amongst the candles. They're ugly hand sewn things, tiny effigies, one long and the other with suspiciously bowed legs. The witch raises the syringe and Dean realises, in a moment of terrible clarity, that she's going to stab the Sam-doll with it.

 

“ _Expergiscere!_ ” she cries, bringing her arm down in the familiar Psycho arc, and Dean darts forward. The needle punches clean through Dean's hand and out the other side. He screams.

 

The witch is furious, thwarted again, but then she looks back to the giant needle impaling Dean's hand and her expression changes. She dies _laughing_ at him, blood bubbling over her lips. Dean steps aside to let her body topple, the hilt of Sam's hunting knife protruding from her back. Another blade, one that Dean hadn't even noticed, falls from her hand.

 

When Sam has reclaimed his knife and wiped off the gore, Dean takes a paper clip from his back pocket and prods cautiously at the doll's leg.

 

“Hey! That's my one,” Sam says, glaring.

 

“I guess we got here just in time.” Dean smirks at Sam, who is twisting the Dean-doll's arm up its back. It doesn't do anything other than make Sam look childish and petty. “They're not linked to us yet.” Dean holds up the Sam-doll. “You're just the world's fugliest plushie,” he tells it.

 

Sam tries to snatch the doll but he's too predictable and Dean's too fast.

 

Dean raises his voice an octave. “Hi there, I'm Samantha the Voodoo Doll,” he says, wobbling the doll's head in time with his words. “I come with my very own riding stables and dickless boyfriend, Ken.”

 

“Fuck off,” Sam says, but there's a half-smile playing about his lips. “They're not Voodoo anyway, they're from Europe. The cunning folk made them for protection against witches.”

 

“The who now?”

 

“Cunning folk,” Sam says, sniffy like Dean didn't do his homework. “Medieval magical practitioners in Europe.”

 

“You mean witches.”

 

“More like early Men of Letters. Bookish types.”

 

“Librarian witches are still witches, Sam.”

 

“Whatever. Let's burn everything,” Sam says, and it's the best idea he's had for a month.

 

****

 

Dean bashes his elbow on the swing door, on his way out of a diner men's room. He clenches his teeth because it hurts like a bitch but then Sam cries out in pain, over at their table, and Dean forgets all about his elbow and rushes over.

 

Sam is stretching out his arm, testing the joint. “Think I trapped a nerve,” he says, “But it's okay now. Weirdest thing though, it was this shooting pain and I didn't even move.”

 

“Shit,” Dean says and grabs Sam's fork.

 

“Hey!” Sam says, “Give that- OW!”

 

Dean sighs, rubbing at the prong marks in his forearm. This kind of shit never seems to happen to other hunters. Other hunters just get the job done or die trying, without the hilarious side effects and lingering complications.

 

****

 

Dean's pretty bummed about passing on his pain, and they're sure as hell finding a quick fix before Dean manages to get himself hurt for real, but there's an upside too: it's an awesome way to bug the shit out of Sam.

 

He waits until they're doing a steady sixty on the interstate and then pokes the paper clip into his upper arm. Sam flinches like he got bitten and shoots Dean a disbelieving glare. Dean waits a few minutes, stealthily creeping a hand down his calf, and it hurts him too when he stabs himself but it's totally worth it for the surprised yelp it gets out of Sam.

 

“Fucking quit it,” Sam says, “Or I'll end up crashing your goddamn car.”

 

“Sorry, sorry,” Dean says, grinning. “I'll be good. Think it'll wear off?”

 

Sam sighs. “I don't know. The spell she was using is a one time thing for a doll but I haven't been able to find anything on human Voodoo dolls yet.”

 

“I'm not a fucking Voodoo doll,” Dean says, incensed.

 

“Actually you kind of are.”

 

Dean stabs his butt cheek and Sam shouts, “Motherfucker!” swerving to a halt, tyres screeching. He jumps out, leaving the driver's door wide open, and stomps away to cool his heels.

 

Dean watches him fondly in the side mirror.

 

****

 

Back at the Bunker they're too tired to do anything except crash. Dean sleeps soundly, a good eight hours, and wakes feeling refreshed. Since he's alone, he tweezes away a few stray eyebrows in the bathroom, then spends the next five minutes worrying that Sam had felt it too.

 

An uncomfortable thought occurs to Dean: What if Sam is experiencing all kinds of second hand feelings from Dean, and not just pain? What if Sam is feeling Dean's emotions too? Shit, for all Dean knows Sam might be experiencing Dean's hunger right now. He hasn't mentioned any freaky mind reading side effects, but it would be just like Sam to keep them to himself.

 

Sam is already nose deep in a dusty tome when Dean sits down to breakfast. He starts with the chocolate fudge cake, watching Sam closely, but nothing in Sam's expression changes. The tiny line of concentration bisecting Sam's brow, a place where no stray eyebrows have ever grown, stays put.

 

Dean grits his teeth and takes a forkful of rocket salad with hot chilli sauce. Sam doesn't even twitch. Well, not until Dean takes a large gulp of coffee and scalds his tongue. Sam's frown deepens but he doesn't look up. “All the lore involves burning the doll,” Sam complains.

 

Dean bites down on the slice of lemon and feels his lips sucking themselves into a moue of disgust.

 

Sam looks up. “What _is_ that?”

 

“Breakfast,” Dean says, defensively.

 

“Okaaay.” Sam's lip curls but it could just be standard disapproval. “I've found a surviving community of cunning folk, north of Boston. I think we should go there and ask for their help.”

 

“Yeah?” Asking for help isn't one of Dean's strong points but if it's the best they've got then he'll go along with it.

 

“Yeah. Y'know there's other fruit in the kitchen, right? 'Cause I gotta tell you man, that looks kinda gross.” Sam says, getting up and stretching.

 

Sam's not wrong. Dean pushes the salad away but he keeps the cake.

 

****

 

The cunning folk of Northern Massachusetts are way too boring to be witches, obsessed by gardening and home improvement, not a dark magic ritual in sight. Dean keeps his guard up anyway, trained into paranoid vigilance where magic users are concerned.

 

They're sympathetic when Sam explains about the curse, and immediately offer to help without asking for payment. When Sam elaborates about the witch's death they do get a little twitchy, giving Dean a wide berth for some reason, although it was Sam who had stabbed her, but whatever. Dean decides it's gratifying.

 

Their motel room is boring too, but clean and all the gadgets work, so Dean's happy. There's nothing to do but wait for their contact to call back, so Dean takes a nice long shower. He's fully hard, dick in hand and halfway there, before he remembers that Sam might be feeling it too.

 

Dean watches Sam closely when he comes out of the bathroom but Sam is completely absorbed in Internet Land, tippity-tap and clickity-click. He doesn't even glance up.

 

****

 

Two days with nothing to do, and Dean's bouncing off the walls. He's watched four movies on demand, on Sebastian Rushworth's credit card, and used up a normal person's monthly allowance of hot water in the shower. So when their contact mentions a property problem that a friend of hers is having it's too tempting to resist.

 

“Come on man,” Sam says, “It's just a poltergeist scaring off potential buyers. Just a simple salt and burn.”

 

“When is it ever simple?” Dean says. He still has reservations about hunting like this. Minor injuries don't seem to leave a mark on Sam but they can't be sure that a serious injury for Dean wouldn't mean a serious injury for Sam too. It's what Voodoo dolls are for, after all.

 

As it turns out, Dean was right to worry. Neither of them sustain more than a wood splinter to the finger, but there's nothing simple about the teenaged ghost weeping on his knees in the basement, begging Dean to rescue his brother's soul.

 

“Your brother was taken by a shtriga,” Dean says, feeling bile rise at the back of his throat. He strikes a match and holds it over the sad pile of rags and human remains.

 

The boy looks up at him, pleading, and he's the most lost of all the lost souls Dean has ever seen.

 

“I'm sorry. Maybe he's waiting for you on the other side.” Dean drops the match and stands there for a while, eyes stinging from the heat and smoke. Sam joins him, walking up close, then he's manhandling Dean into turning, trying to fucking hug him.

 

“I'm fine Sam,” Dean says, pushing Sam away. “Let's just tidy it up and get out of here.”

 

“You're not fine though,” Sam says, and what the fuck? Is Sam crying? He hadn't even been there to hear the sob story about the doomed brother. “I can feel it Dean. I can feel that you're not okay.”

 

****

 

“Are you done freaking out?” Sam says, watching Dean with infuriating patience.

 

Dean paces. He can't help it. “Why didn't you tell me?” he says. “I'm phoning Trisha, they must have found something by now.”

 

Sam sighs. “It's been forty minutes since she last checked in,” he says. “I didn't tell you because I knew you'd react like this.”

 

Sam's phone rings. It plays the Barbie Girl ring tone but doesn't make Dean feel any better.

 

“That's great,” Sam says in his I'm-a-lovely-person voice, mouthing ' _Trisha_ ' for Dean's benefit, like Dean couldn't figure that out for himself. “Sure, we can come over and do some samples.” Sam holds up a placating hand before Dean can protest, mouthing ' _Only blood._ ' “We'll be there in twenty.”

 

Dean's halfway out the door before Sam ends the call.

 

****

 

The hamburger, fries and large coke afterwards don't make Dean feel better either. All he can think about is how Sam might be tasting his food, how Sam had winced when the needle went in Dean's arm but not his own, and how Sam might be feeling the old ache in Dean's knee right now. Sam rubs at his temples like Dean's anxiety is giving him a headache.

 

“I can't see why it would take a whole day to make one dumb spell,” Dean says, bouncing his knee under the table.

 

“Please relax,” Sam says. “I can't actually read your mind, you know. Your secrets are safe.”

 

They use the men's room before leaving the diner, and Dean takes one look at Sam standing at the urinals before shutting himself in a cubicle. The sound of Sam letting go at the same time makes Dean wonder if Sam can feel him-? No. Dean cuts the thought off along with his stream of his piss, relieved to hear that Sam has finished.

 

After a moment Dean lets go again, not quite empty, and so does Sam, at exactly the same moment, piss tinkling against porcelain and echoing loud off all the tiled surfaces. It surprises Dean into stopping again. He waits long heartbeats and tries again, horrified to hear Sam going in sync.

 

Dean listens until he hears the door of the men's room close behind Sam, but it's a while longer before he can make himself leave the cubicle.

 

****

 

When they get back to the room Dean changes into his best jeans, the ones that haven't gone baggy yet, and grabs his jacket. “I'm going out,” he tells Sam. “Don't wait up.”

 

Alcohol does make Dean feel better, and so does the blow job he gets out back, just out of sight of the bar's regulars who have gone outside for a smoke.

 

The room is dark when he gets in and Sam is pretending to sleep, so Dean lets him have his charade. He gets himself a glass of water, quietly as he can, and passes out fully clothed on his bed.

 

“Trisha called,” Sam says, way too loud. Dean smells coffee but he keeps his eyes closed against the daylight. Why is there so much sunshine behind his eyelids? “She says to go over there at midday and the spell will be ready.”

 

Dean cracks an eye open and his head throbs.

 

Sam groans and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Coffee,” he says, pointing unnecessarily to the bedside table. “Aspirin. I hate you.”

 

****

 

Sam drives and Dean tries not to think about how it might have felt for Sam to receive last night's blow job second hand. The skin beside Dean's thumbnail has already been chewed away and he can't seem to leave it alone. There'd been all those other times Dean had jerked off in the shower too, not to mention every other bodily function since he got cursed. He tears off a tiny strip of skin with his teeth. It stings.

 

Sam thwaps him on the arm. “Would you stop that?”

 

Thinking about Sam jerking off has Dean hard and twitching in his jeans. Sam probably came every time Dean did, at the exact same moment. Sam probably came thinking of Dean, cursing him or wishing that he was in Dean's place, or maybe, just maybe, wishing there wasn't a thin motel wall between them.

 

Dean knows that he's one sick fuck for thinking of his brother that way, but the dirty-bad-wrong of it only makes it better.

 

Sam shifts subtly in the driver's seat and sweet Jesus, Dean wants in Sam's pants so bad right now that he's going directly back to Hell, do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars.

 

“Tell me we're almost there,” Dean says, his morning after voice even rougher than usual.

 

And Dean's still a little drunk, maybe more than a little, so when Sam says, “Seriously Dean, I can't... Can you think about something else, just for a minute? We're almost there,” Dean doesn't knock himself out or jump from the moving car, but instead he says,

 

“Why Sammy? You feel like jumping my bones?”

 

And Sam stops the car, doesn't even bother to pull over, and they're kissing, right there in the middle of the carriageway, horns blaring as traffic flows around them. “Yeah?” Sam says, pinning Dean with the intense Sam-beam that's always been impossible to escape. “Yeah Dean?”

 

Dean's never been so turned on. Sam can feel it, there's no denying it. “Fuck yeah,” he says.

 

Sam gets them back on the road, wheeling the car around in a U-turn, one handed, and fumbling his phone with the other. “Trisha? Yeah, listen, there's been a delay, couple hours at least. It's something we have to do.”

 

****

 

Dean's first thought is that he's made a mistake, that however desperate he had been for his brother's dick moments before, his body just can't handle the reality of it. Sam blankets his back though, soothes him and pushes him all the way down to his belly. The angle of Sam's thrusts changes too, as Sam experiments, and Dean's body goes boneless all at once because _fuck._

 

It doesn't take long for Dean to open up like he was born for it. Sam must be able to feel when it gets really good because he moves just right and Dean's erection perks up, trapped under his body where he can't get to it. Dean squirms, silently willing Sam to move faster, give it to him harder.

 

Sam pulls him over so that they're on their sides, and arranges Dean's leg over his own, hooking his ankle over Dean's shin to keep him where he wants him. Dean goes with it, grateful to be free to jerk his dick, until Sam pulls Dean's arm back too and takes over, jerking Dean infuriatingly slowly, keeping him teetering on the edge. Sam, the asshole, he must be able to feel it; must have such a keen understanding of just how ready Dean is to blow that he can keep him there, so close, and make him wait.

 

“Sam,” Dean grits out, “Fucking do it,” but Sam soothes him again, which is maddening, intermittently stroking Dean's balls and slowing the pace until Sam's just as strung out as Dean is and neither of them can last much longer.

 

“You ready,” Sam asks in a shaky voice, and Dean wants to say that yes he's fucking ready but he's coming, making a mess all over Sam's hand, and he can feel Sam going off inside him, thinks about how wet he's going to be inside, and it makes him moan, pulse harder, give it all up.

 

Afterwards Dean says, “You know that we've still gotta get rid of it, go to Trisha's and let her do the spell.”

 

There's a long silence and Sam says, “I know,” in a small voice. “But we're still going to do this, aren't we? I mean, we're still going to do this even when we're not cursed, yeah?”

 

Dean turns into Sam's chest and bites lightly at his pec, because _duh_. Dean's not giving this up for the world. Just because they're doing it doesn't mean they have to have a chick flick moment over it though.

 

“I mean, I've wanted this for so long,” Sam's saying, and it makes Dean feel hot all over. “I had no idea. I mean... Dean. This... this is it for me. I-”

 

Dean shuts him up with a kiss. And maybe Dean's holding on a bit too tight. Maybe he's clinging to Sam like their lives depend on it, but so fucking what.

 

****

 

After the ritual they say their thank yous, swap their contact details and get back on the road. Dean feels loss weighing him down and he's miserable with it. He wants to sleep for a month, until his chest no longer aches and he's sure he can hold back the tears. It had to be done though, and Dean knows it. He tells himself that living with the curse could only have resulted in getting Sam killed again. Dean will find a way to get by, but now that he knows what it's like to be known inside out by Sam, it's going to be a bitch to live without.

 

Dean thinks that it's his own sadness he's feeling, all the way to the New York state line, when he thumps his thigh in frustration and then inexplicably feels surprised about it.

 

“Dean!” Sam says, “ _Dean!_ ” and Dean's body floods with soaring emotions.

 

It's the glory of every hunt and the joy of every hug they've ever shared, all rolled into one. They're Sam's feelings and they're Dean's too, and they tangle around Dean's heart in a strangle hold, making him choke.

 

“You feel it too,” Sam says, awed, and if Dean could talk he would tell Sam not to be such a sap, but he can't and it wouldn't do any good anyway because Sam's just so goddamned unapologetically happy about it.

 

And yeah okay, there's no hiding it. Dean is too.

 

 


End file.
